


From Zero to One

by White_Marker



Category: Shadowhunters (TV)
Genre: 1940s, Alternate Universe, Asexuality Spectrum, Historical, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Slightly - Freeform, Summer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-21
Updated: 2018-02-13
Packaged: 2019-03-07 17:00:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13439238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/White_Marker/pseuds/White_Marker
Summary: Right outside of New York, in the summer of 1941, two young men stand side by side overlooking a lake. On the western border of the land owned by their employers, the Lightwoods, the freshwater lake stretches across the expanse of the horizon. The water is murky and shallow, a muddy yellow, and you might step into it and see your skin turn sallow and dirty.





	1. Chapter 1

Summer 1941, Northern America

 

Simon’s life was full of men – all kinds, all ranks, all temperaments. He had grown used to it, from a young age. But when he grew up, things had changed.

Raphael and Simon slept in the servants’ quarters, and worked daily to satisfy the whims and wills of the patron of the house – a man, of course – and they sweat inside out to make sure the house had not a stain on it. They didn’t mind. The work was satisfactory and each night they slept deeply after a day full of strain.

Outside the house, on the western border of the land owned by their employers, a freshwater lake stretched across the expanse of the horizon. The water was murky and shallow, a muddy yellow, and you might step into it and see your skin turn sallow and dirty. Whenever Simon had a bit of free time on his hands in the summer, which was rare, he’d go outside and wait until his feet sunk into the mud. It reminded him of his childhood, when he had spent many summers near the seaside and had played with the drab sand, digging watery holes where the sea lapped at the shore, dugouts wherein he would stand and not waver until the current washed over his feet, each wave burying his feet a little deeper into the sand.

A little further out on the lake, the water reached scary depths. A deck was placed in the middle where the children of the house could sunbathe and enjoy themselves. A boat bobbed right next to it. The servants of the house were offered lessons in the summer, diving from an impressive height and swimming races fully clothed to practice their rescue skills. It wasn’t mandatory, but Raphael thought he might benefit from it, if he ever had to save someone who was foolish enough to drown. Of course, Raphael was a perfect swimmer, and he said _foolish_ with a bit of a superior tone of a reprimand. As if only a fool could drown.

Simon chose to partake in the lessons, too. One day he found himself standing on the ledge of the second floor on the boat, gripping the railing and preparing to jump. Right below, a small gathering of guests sipped drinks and talked quietly in the lazy summer afternoon. On the rare occasion Raphael and he were invited to cater these outings as part of their job, they never hesitated. Raphael was never anything but obedient, and Simon loved the water. But he’d grown accustomed to the rescue lessons and, on autopilot, had moved to the edge of the boat ready to jump out fully clothed. He had to recalibrate his mind and realize he was there to serve cocktail sausages and expensive drinks, not to rescue a fool who’d stumbled into the water. Raphael stared at him and insulted him for being stupid – Simon would disrupt the party.

Raphael was a hard worker. He didn’t stop until eleven p.m. when their day was officially over, later still when there was an event hosted by the family. He got up in the mornings and took his pile of folded clothing – a servant’s outfit, perfectly tailored and ironed –, changed swiftly in the bathroom, brushed his dull, black hair viciously until it lay flat, gelled it into a respectable shape, brushed his teeth with an intensity that left it bleeding, and scrubbed his face clean until it was slightly pink. With no small amount of certitude could Simon say that he was the opposite of Raphael. The only way he managed to stand next to Raphael, dressed and fresh-faced, was by emptying his mind and forcing himself to mimic some of Raphael’s morning ritual with just the right amount of effort in order for it to seem as if he had disciplined myself, whereas in reality, he spent most of his mornings watching Raphael from his bed.

Usually, by seven o’clock in the morning, they would stand at the entrance of the hall leading to the kitchens, side by side, ready to receive instructions. Light the fires, dust the rooms, bring him or her breakfast, gather the newspaper and post from the office in town, scrub the floor after the kitchen crew has finished the morning shift; the list was endless and never created any opportunity to slack.

Seeing as Raphael’s work ethic was harsh and his list of executed tasks spotless, with no negative comment of any kind, it was rather difficult for Simon to get Raphael to be a willing recipient of his attention and affections. In fact, the first few years they worked together, the thought of seducing this man had never even entered his mind – Simon was a stilted admirer from afar and never lamented his position as such.

If it hadn’t been for their shared rooms, nothing would have ever come of it, Simon was sure. Raphael was too occupied, and never doled out any time for personal matters, unless it was to write a letter to his mother – which he wrote in Spanish, meaning Simon never got any closer to unmasking the mystery of Raphael, because he barely spoke enough of the language to string together a coherent sentence. And Simon himself was too awkward and hesitant to take on this cyclone. Simon called him that in his head, a cyclone, because Raphael raged through the house with such force and determination to be precise and dutiful, with eyes so dark they looked like storms, that, at times, it even worried their head maid.

Raphael was unapproachable, an entirely different species, and it spooked Simon slightly. However was he supposed to approach someone like that?

The answer soon became clear: the only advantage Simon had was the privacy of their shared rooms. The servants occupied bedrooms in pairs of twos. All along the hall, male servants slept two by two. Simon’s life was full of men, and perhaps, had he not been surrounded by so many men, he would have not passed the time singling out the one he wanted. It had been a game at first, to play in his head when he grew bored of cleaning silver or dusting candlesticks. Unfortunately the innocent game had backfired and ever since he’d entertained the thought of Raphael not as a fellow servant but something to be chased, Simon had regretted it. Alas, nothing was to be done to steady his growing infatuation.

One night, at the end of a hot summer’s day, when Raphael had fallen asleep and Simon lay in bed, trying to recreate the feeling of warm sunbeams on his skin, he traced Raphael’s bare arm that sprawled across the mattress. Every evening, Simon had pushed his bed a little closer to Raphael’s and by now, Simon could touch him. He traced his bare arm, the crook of his elbow, rubbed the downy hairs on his skin, and startled when he looked up and found Raphael’s dark eyes open, staring fixedly at him.

In the time span of a few seconds, Simon worked up the nerve to apologize, to explain, to barter for discretion, to beg for forgiveness for overstepping.

But it wasn’t a hard glare he received.

Raphael seemed quite pleased, so, with an unsteady hand, Simon continued his ministrations. For long minutes, which might’ve turned into hours, for he had no notion of passing time, Simon sketched across his skin, drawing around his fingers and knuckles, lining his hands with his own fingernails. Lucky for Simon, Raphael wore a soft cotton shirt, so Simon was able to slip his hands into Raphael’s shirt and touch every bump along the ridges of his spine. He splayed his cold hands out on Raphael’s warm skin, pushed into the thick muscles bordering his spine and the stretch of skin right beneath his shoulder blades. Quickly enough, Simon forgot about his nerves. He never once received any encouragements or snubs from Raphael, only silence, which in itself could only be interpreted as permission. They did not exchange any words, but that was not anything unusual. Raphael rarely spoke, and if he did it was to confirm an order, or give a curt instruction himself.

By the break of daylight, early in the morning hours when the air was still cool outside, Simon had barely been able to close his eyes and sleep for all his thundering heartbeat and exhilaration – which Simon forced myself not to voice, as to not break whatever spell he had cast. He felt nauseous and dizzy with newness. Raphael had long since fallen asleep, with a tight-lipped mouth and a slight frown. This was how Raphael always slept and Simon chose to interpret this as a positive sign. He had taken to caressing Raphael’s long fingers, trailing them with utmost care and a steady pressure as to not suddenly jolt him into wakefulness. Raphael’s skin was cool and soft to the touch.

They were interrupted by a son of the family, an obnoxious blonde, barging into their room and demanding their help for the menial task of preparing his fishing gear. The son proclaimed today was a fine day, a very fine day to go fishing indeed. It was one of the first times Simon had felt a sensation of hate wash over him. These brats thought they could do anything, thought they were welcome to enter anywhere, anytime, and invading the privacy of their bedroom hadn’t mean anything to them. Simon glared at the son and his frilly shirt, at the way he unthinkingly listed orders as he had done for years. It wasn’t done in a malicious way, either. The son wasn’t unkind.

Before, it wouldn’t have bothered Simon, but now that he had something to cherish, it turned his knuckles white.

To Simon’s horror, Raphael brushed him off and stood up immediately, tending to the needs of the son.

The spell had effectively been broken.

"Up and at'em, boys, I wanna go fishing!"


	2. Chapter 2

 

The rain was coming down hard. Perhaps, if it hadn’t been for the muggy heat, the rain would have been welcoming, refreshing even, but now it was warm against Raphael’s face and didn’t offer the reprieve he had hoped for when, earlier, he had stood at the kitchen window sill looking outside.

The garden had dried throughout the summer months and it was the first downpour in weeks, making the barren lawn smell of petrichor, a dour and moist smell, as the grass and plants gave off oil, reacting with the water. First rains had a specific smells to them, especially out on the porch, where the drops pelted against the asphalt and gave off a stink as they mixed with mud, dust, and sediment. Raphael had headed there, earlier in the morning before any sign of a summer storm, to water the plants and flowers on the front lawn, the azaleas and roses. As he stood in the back yard, he could almost smell the stink from there. The storm had come unexpectedly and hit hard. The drops of rain turned his white shirt see-through, and soon enough he was drenched. He unbuttoned his shirt and dropped it on the stone border of the fountain near the tiled terrace of the house.

The yard was deserted, as well as the house. More than a week, now, Raphael had anticipated this moment of solitude with a quiet longing, knowing the family he worked for had been invited over in town for a late lunch at the penthouse of some renown banker who was looking to establish a few influential relationships – the Lightwoods were natural invitees. For the longest while, Raphael did nothing but stare out into the yard and the stretch of lake behind it, inhaling the humid air quietly and emptying his mind as he focussed on his breathing. He was alone, and he was at peace, just as it ought to be.

He sighed through his nose and kicked at an empty flower pot.

Just as quickly as the storm had arrived, it abated. He walked to the terrace. He lit a cigarette and used the ashtray on the wooden table, then ambled back to the fountain and spread out his shirt on the grass for it to dry out. Had it not been for the official afternoon off, with the certainty that the owners of the house would be absent, Raphael wouldn’t have dared take off his shirt, let alone wander around the yard bare-chested. It wasn’t proper. His mamá would have surely scolded him for such impudent behaviour. But the heat was stifling and it had felt like a load being lifted when he had undressed. His black uniform pants were equally drenched, but he had the good sense not to trot around in his white briefs. Lord forbid, someone would choose that exact moment to come outside.

As it was, Raphael had hoped to be left in peace, but just as his cigarette reached its end and he sat down in the grass next to the drying shirt, the door to the backyard from the kitchen opened very slightly and Simon’s head peeked out. Raphael was oblivious to the matter, and was in fact deeply retreated in the corners of his mind, contemplating the letter he had received from his mother a week earlier, announcing his older brother had got a girl pregnant and was now forced to marry her. He thought of his brother, the lanky, shy figure, and wondered how on earth he had gone from a shy boy to a man who got a girl pregnant in the short amount of time since Raphael had last seen him.

With his eyes closed, Raphael didn’t notice the figure dropping down next to him. When he finally opened his eyes, he fought to supress a sigh. Whatever had taken hold of him last night, allowing Simon to touch him like that, it was gone now, and Raphael felt uncomfortable facing him. Who was this stranger, and how was he supposed to act? And why did he seem to pop up wherever Raphael went? Wasn’t his wish for solitude easily discernible?

As with any moment of doubt, Raphael turned to his motto: silence is your best friend. He did not have an open expression, a kind face, and he was aware of it. Perhaps even utilized this fact.

Simon waited for him to speak, but nothing ever came. Instead, Simon extended an olive branch and started a conversation all on his own. Raphael slowly turned to face him, and much like people were used of him, remained stone-faced as he hardly registered the words spoken. If there had been an order, an instruction, or a command in the waterfall of words, chances are Raphael would have picked up on it. He trained his ear for that kind of thing. It was his job to follow orders. However, Simon seemed to prattle on about all sorts of trivial matters, such as the large bruise on his shin, a cousin named Clary who had recently been hired as help, the yellowing grass —to Raphael’s ear, it sounded like gibberish, and he watched Simon’s lips move at a fervent speed —how he wished he could be left alone in peace with his thoughts.

Later, when the Lightwood family returned and the house was once again in its usual state, full of bustling activity, when he served dinner off of a large silver platter, bending forward slightly and scooping hash browns onto the plates of the Lightwoods, he would return to that moment earlier in the afternoon, and he would once again wonder what came over him, what on earth had possessed him to behave this brashly with another person? He would minutely remember how he had suddenly been enraptured by the sound of Simon’s voice and how he had leaped forward, capturing his mouth in a sweltering kiss in the muggy heat, foolishly exposed in the middle of the back yard, where anyone could have caught them.

His mother needn’t scold him for this, he was already admonishing himself for such imprudence, anyways.

He resumed his duties and spoke not a word to any of the staff for the remainder of the evening.

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

It was at the servants’ dinner table downstairs they saw each other again. They ate late in the evening, after the Lightwoods, and as a rule, ate together. Mr. Bane, the one in charge of overlooking the estate, making sure the household was a well-oiled system, sat at the head of the table.

The chair opposite of Simon was occupied by a disgruntled looking Raphael, who, with a deep crease between his brows, pierced vegetables with his fork in seemingly deepest concentration. He hadn’t raised his head once during the meal, nor had he acknowledged anyone apart from Magnus, as was only decent for the staff. From where he was sitting, Simon could catch a glimpse of the golden chain hanging around Raphael’s neck, the reminder of his catholic faith. Usually, he would leave his collar buttoned all the way up, leaving no skin exposed, but tonight he appeared somewhat disorderly. Simon fixated on the chain with a spoonful of grub halfway to his mouth, slowly remembering to eat.

The truth was that he was assaulted by a feeling of deep melancholy, of injustice. If times were less difficult, he wouldn’t feel such a nervousness, a feeling of hyperactive awareness of his Jewishness. But across an ocean, people much like himself suffered. And he clenched his teeth as he fathomed for the millionth time that his position was such a precarious one. His offence was twofold: not only was he a Jew, but he was a Jewish man falling for other men. Had he been in Europe, or in any of the camps across the globe, would he not be a prime target? Made of everything that was hated? Everything that was thrown carelessly into camps, like cattle in a slaughtering house?

With a spoon lodged in his mouth, he briefly touched his chest, where once upon a time he wore a chain with a David star pendant. These days he thought it wiser to not blatantly announce who he was to the world. Out here in the States, they were removed from the warzone, but Simon had been on the receiving end of a fair share of hateful remarks, nonetheless. He did not like to imagine what was happening to his brethren across the ocean.

Simon shook it off, and attempted to tackle one problem at a time, namely the one sitting opposite him, ignoring him completely. He could never guess whether this was done on purpose, or with malice, or if this behaviour of Raphael’s was merely his natural state of being. Surly and private.

Raphael chose that moment to raise his eyes to Simon’s. A hard stare was all Simon received before Raphael continued with his meal.

Stingy, then, too, could be added to the list of his everyday demeanour and attitude.

Simon sighed through his nose and resumed to eat his soup. Next to him, Clary chatted with all the ingenuousness of a child, oblivious to what Simon struggled with. She smiled at him before turning to another maid and resuming her conversation.

 

 

Once the table had been cleaned and everyone scuttled off to their rooms or the kitchens to go serve desert upstairs, only Raphael and Magnus remained. Raphael adjusted the buttons on his shirt and straightened the lapels of his jacket.

“Mr. Santiago, may I have a word?”

He nodded automatically with a bowed head, a complacent habit he’d adopted over the years.

“How are you finding work?”

Raphael thought such a question odd, as if he had only worked there for a few days or weeks, instead of two years.

“Very well, why?”

“No reason. I made a promise to your mother, that’s all.” The promise he spoke of was securing Raphael with a job. When he’d been younger, he’d had a bit of an anarchic streak, and couldn’t manage to hold onto a job.

Raphael nodded again, at a loss for what to say, and not in the mood to for small talk.

Magnus seemed to pick up on it. “I shall just get right to the point of it, then. I saw you outside, yesterday, with the Lewis boy.”

One sentence was enough to make him break out into a cold sweat –and he damned himself immediately. He lowered his gaze out of reflex, as he had done several dozens of time at home, when he found himself in a similar situation. And as with those situations, he did as he must: backpedal. “I only wish for you to keep your job, and you should know it isn’t wise—,”

“Mr. Bane, I assure you, whatever you think it is you saw—,”

“It’s Magnus, please, and I have eyes, Raphael—,”

“I have no idea of what you are speaking.”

Magnus regarded him for a few seconds with screwed up eyes, and then leaned in slightly, almost in a brotherly fashion, as if he were to impart a secret:

“Raphael, don’t misunderstand me, there’s nothing wrong with having relations such as these, but—,”

“I think you misunderstand me, sir. I do not know what it is you think you saw, but nothing untoward happened between Mr. Lewis and I. And even if it did, it does not have anything to do with my competency to do my job.”

“I never intended to imply that.”

“Good.” Raphael almost flushed with shame, realizing he was being terribly impolite, to the point of being insubordinate. He did not wish to lose his job. He _could not_ lose his job to his careless behaviour once more. It would upset his mamá greatly.

“Raphael. I have no problem with it.”

Raphael started to open his mouth to protest but Magnus held up a hand.

“But I know Mr. and Mrs. Lightwood do not take kindly to that kind of fraternizing. You ought to be more careful in the future to not expose yourself so publically. I only want you to be careful.” It was difficult to connect this advice with Magnus’ personality, which, although stern, Raphael had always thought of as free and open. Now he was suggesting the opposite, to hide. Or perhaps Raphael misunderstood and Magnus truly condoned such behaviour, and only hoped Raphael wouldn’t be fired for it.

Leaving him no chance to reply to his advice, Magnus said, “Now go bring Maximilian his desert.” Magnus grinned. “Or he will have my head.”

“Yes, sir.”

If all else failed, at least he could follow orders.


	4. Chapter 4

A few weeks later during an early morning, right after the sun had risen, Simon found himself standing barefoot in the shallow waters of the lake outside the house, sinking his feet in mud that was slick like putty.

He waded further in until the water rose to his ankles, his calves, his knees, right until he couldn’t hoist his pants up any higher. He breathed in the cool morning air, thinking about the last few days. Both shared a secret of no small magnitude, and were aware of walking on eggshells in a household where not everyone would approve of their having a relationship beyond workmates or friends. They had a few places they could let loose and be themselves completely, like the private quarters of their rooms, under the sheets, the abandoned wooden shack the Lightwood siblings used as hideout when they were younger, and the small lake house filled with canoes and fishing gear.

Raphael had not spoken a word to him last night, nor had he engaged in much conversation over the last few weeks, which was altogether not strange, yet Simon could admit he had hoped perhaps something would have changed. In some ways, though, the continuing silence was familiar territory, so at least Simon knew how to proceed, namely by chattering to fill space. He smiled to himself as he walked back and forth on the lakefront. Another tactic he could now adopt to fill silences – and, by Jove, he would never have considered this to be a possibility a few weeks ago – was to occupy Raphael otherwise: by touching him.

It had surprised him to realize that _he_ was the one to be bold and manifest his intentions to love and touch and take, whereas Raphael, though not shy at all, generally took in Simon’s ministrations and touching with an air of almost smug amusement. Raphael rarely initiated anything. Simon had noticed it almost immediately, and couldn’t help but feel insecure about it –did he not want to touch Simon as much as Simon wanted to touch Raphael, did he not feel that eager impatience, the jitters and the trembling when Simon started to kneed his hands into Raphael’s muscles, and alternated between sweltering kisses and slight touches? The insecurity drove him to loneliness at times, right up until the moment he saw the look in Raphael’s eyes when Simon glanced at him, and the eyes always betrayed his cool deference: his eyes, in a composed face, were stormy.

Simon heaved a long, loud sigh and made to return to the main house. Breakfast would soon have to be served, and Magnus was probably ready to tear him a new one. Simon had the tendency to be late.

When he walked into the kitchen, the room was already bustling, servants darting left and right in a haste to prepare breakfast and bring trays upstairs. Simon waved a cheery hello to Magnus, who returned his greeting with a shake of his hand and an eye roll. He gave the rest of the staff a bright smile and quickly made his way over to the kitchen island in the middle of the room, where the head cook smacked dough onto the cutting plank and beat it with her strong fists. Simon often helped with preparing pastries he knew Isabelle was so fond of. Both her brothers, the obnoxious Jace and high-strung Alec, did not particularly like Simon’s company, but he knew they ate his pastries regardless.

Just as he was about to get his hands dirty, Raphael appeared from the next room, hair slicked back and pristine uniform on. He sported twin purple bags under his eyes, evidence of last night’s activity and this morning’s fatigue, but walked with a straight back, and his eyes were alert. His tie hung loose, and without thinking about it, Simon swooped in and halted in front of Raphael, who frowned and sighed.

“Lewis. Move. I’m late.”

Simon gave him a crooked grin and adjusted the tie before deftly knotting it into a butterfly bow. Raphael had missed a small patch while he’d shaved. Simon grazed his adam’s apple while tying the knot, so swiftly no one noticed. Magnus, however, studied the exchange.

Raphael clicked his tongue. “Hurry up.”

“Sure thing, boss.”

“I’m not your boss.”

“Semantics. It’s a form of speech.”

“It’s really not.”

Simon flattened his hands on either side of Raphael’s neck, moved them down his shoulders with a quick _swish_ , then down the length of his arms, removing a piece of non-existent lint.

“See? Perfection.” He grinned, but Raphael did not look particularly amused. He only moved his head sideways in an approximation of a nod.

Raphael walked away briskly into the hallway, where Simon followed and ignored Magnus’ call of ‘Seamus!’ The narrow hall was empty and Simon grabbed Raphael’s arm and pulled him into a storing cabinet. He kissed Raphael until his lips felt like they were bleeding raw, until he couldn’t help his roving hands, but Raphael quickly grew bothered and batted his hands away every time they wandered to his hair or his belt buckle.

Not hearing Raphael’s warning grunts, Simon put his hand down Raphael’s pants.

“Stop.”

Simon pulled back in a daze and protested, “Pfff. Sourpuss. Killjoy. Stinker.”

Raphael rolled his eyes and readjusted his bowtie. “Cry baby. Sniveler.” His lips betrayed a grin.

“You’re getting off on this, aren’t you?” he complained. “Holding back the goods. Keeping me at an arm’s distance. I’m not your lapdog.”

The grin grew. “Sucker.”

Simon slumped. “Damnit. All right. Go do your job.”

“Bye, baby.”

Raphael turned around and left, only the subtlest hint of red on his cheeks.

Most of the servants knew what was going on. It wasn’t that difficult to deduce.

 

Later that evening, when the dinner table upstairs had been cleared and the servants downstairs fell into their bed, exhausted, Simon put his chin in his hand as he waited for Raphael to finish his evening routine. At times, Simon made fun of his vanity, to which Raphael always gave the same reply, “It’s called hygiene, you ought to try it sometimes.” The truth was, he felt, not so much hygiene that was important to him, but the routine. Keeping up a routine and executing certain steps to ensure he felt clean and fit, it made him feel as if he had his act together, as if he were a real man, a grownup instead of a boy.

Raphael inspected his face in the mirror and wondered who stared back. His mamá’s son, Mr. Santiago the waiter, or perhaps a man who was loved by another man?

“How was your day, then?” Simon asked.

“Fine.”

“ _Fine_?”

“Same as usual. Fine.”

Simon sniffed.

“It’s not exactly the circus, Simon.” He turned around and shrugged. “What do you want me say?”

“Uh… Something other than _fine_? Like you say every day?”

Simon always wished for something more. It was a little irritating, to be honest.

“Sorry, baby. But work was _just fine_ today.”

“Pff.”

“Mmh.”

“Well.”

Raphael raised his brows as he climbed into bed. “Well?”

“Stop mimicking me. You’re always doing that. It’s real annoying.”

“Speaking of things that are annoying…” Raphael trailed off with a smug little look.

Simon punched him in the shoulder. “Asshole!”

“See? Very annoying.”

It was too easy to rile him up. Raphael laughed and then kissed him. Simon was easy to please, as well, and Raphael couldn’t figure out what he liked doing best, riling him up or pleasing him. Both made him feel a little disconnected from the world. A little more alive.

 

[Intermezzo - Magnus]

 

Magnus conversed quietly with the Lightwood family, inquiring after the dinner they’d just eaten.

“Lovely tarts tonight, Magnus, really, just lovely,” Mrs. Lightwood said.

Isabelle snorted and schooled her face when she caught her mother’s stern grimace.

“Yes,” said Magnus. “I’ll pass your compliments on to Mr. Lewis downstairs.”

“Mr. Lewis?” inquired Mr. Lightwood, lighting a cigar. “I haven’t heard from him yet.”

His wife put her hand on his sleeve. “Yes, we have, darling. It’s that clumsy boy, isn’t it, Magnus? The one who broke our wedding china serving plate.”

He smiled at them in apology and nodded. “Indeed. We don’t let him come upstairs, though, he’s sure to create chaos.”

“Wise man,” agreed Mr. Lightwood sensibly.

Magnus felt the back of his neck prickle, as if he were being watched, and when he turned to find the source, he caught Alec’s intense stare. Alec, as if electrocuted, jolted and spilled some of his ale on the carpet. Alec didn’t dare look at him anymore.

Magnus regretted this fact terribly. He thought of his charge, Raphael, and how, despite Magnus’ warning, Raphael not attempted to curb his infatuation with Simon – even though it was not obvious to most people, Magnus recognized Raphael’s feelings for what they were: infatuation.

Magnus was worried about the Lightwoods’ reaction if they were to find out. But a stronger emotion was at play apart from worry. The truth was that Magnus felt increasingly jealous, envious of the ease with which Simon and Raphael accepted their lot. Meanwhile, Alec still spilled wine every time he was caught even so much as looking in Magnus’ direction.

Alec had a long way to go. Perhaps Magnus might help him, if his help was welcome.

He used the heavy white cloth he carried around to clean up the stain.


	5. Chapter 5

On one of the rare occasions that the household staff had an evening off, Raphael and Simon took the opportunity to visit the city, Magnus joining them. Mr. and Mrs. Lightwood were very fond of three-course meals and late-night cocktail parties, and even a brooding war didn’t deter them from extravagance. They were not altogether very worried about their future. The Lightwoods enjoyed their luxuries to the fullest, and it meant a night off was a rare occasion indeed for the people downstairs.

Late in the afternoon found Magnus, Simon, and Raphael heading to East Harlem. Magnus kept his eyes focused on the road while he chatted amicably with Simon, whom he still refused to name properly. It was an odd inside joke Simon felt he’d never been let it on. Raphael sat in the back, watching the streets under the faded orange streetlights. The entire ride into town he had been quiet, and no amount of attempts from Simon successfully involved him in the conversation.

“Don’t you mind him, now, darling,” said Magnus. “He’s just being sour.”

It always surprised Simon how Magnus’ changed from tranquil professionalism to endearing friendliness whenever he left the Lightwood manor. An odd change, but a welcome one. It reminded Simon of his mother.

“I’ll just drop you off around the corner,” said Magnus.

“You’re not joining us?”

“You’ll have to miss out on my lovely company tonight, I’m afraid.” Magnus winked.

“And here I’d hoped you’d be the persuading vote!” exclaimed Simon.

“You still haven’t decided on which movie you’re going to watch?”

“No,” Simon grumbled, digging his back into the car seat. “Raphael wants to go see Citizen Kane. I wanna go check out Dumbo. But of course, stick-in-the-mud over there finds it beneath him to go see, quote unquote, a dumb kid’s movie.”

From the back, Raphael grunted. “Cartoons are for the illiterate.”

Simon turned around in his seat. “You’re so stuck-up.”

“Troglodyte.”

“What?”

“Inerudite.”

“What?! Stop calling me names?”

Raphael had the gall to smile. “Sure, now you smile. When you insult me, you smile!” He turned to Magnus. “Magnus!”

“Please don’t involve me in this.”

Simon groused, “Oh!”, and stewed in his seat.

 

After the movie was over, Raphael of course having won their discussion, to no one’s real surprise, they took a walk around the block waiting for Magnus to return. They had agreed to meet at eleven o’clock, and still had a half an hour to waste. About fifteen of those thirty minutes were spent in a darkened alley, where a hungry Simon pushed Raphael against the bricks of a derelict, abandoned hotel called the Dumont.

They were thrumming on the high, sliding their hands against each other and leaning into each other’s space, too wholly absorbed and grinning that they never noticed they had once more reached the more populated area of the neighbourhood, even the more fancy part of town, right up until the moment a twitching, gaping Mrs. Lightwood stood in front of them.

Raphael quickly yanked back his hand from where it had been sticking in Simon’s back pocket and jerked out of Simon’s personal space. Their dishevelled appearance hid nothing. In a moment of panic, Simon laughed nervously. The two of them had sprung apart and coughed uncomfortably while Mr. Lightwood glanced back and forth between his wife and his two employees.

“What is going on here?” he demanded.

Raphael adopted a low and slow manner of speaking. “We had not expected to see you here, Mr. and Mrs. Lightw-,”

“Obviously not!” she scoffed. “They were _kissing_ , Robert,” she whispered, half-outraged. He answered with a tilt of the head. “Maryse.”

“Ehh-ehm..,” Simon stammered. “No.”

“I have eyes, boy, don’t insult me.”

“Of course.”

“Robert, something must be done about this. We can’t have these … people working for us. It’s not proper.” She turned to Raphael. “What have you to say for yourself? We put our trust in you.”

For the past weeks, Raphael had heeded Magnus’ warning, but he had never truly envisioned what the fallout of his indiscretions would be like. It was as if he had been living in a haze, a softened daze in which he almost didn’t recognize himself, so light and different he had been feeling. And now it was quickly falling apart.

Simon’s eyes darted between the ground, Mrs. Lightwood and her husband, and his breath grew rapid and frantic, he was yammering little noises of distress, as if he could rewind the moment if only he tried hard enough, and all the while, Raphael had not stopped watching Simon once, like a lovelorn fool.

“Mr. Santiago!” Maryse snapped. “Raphael! I am speaking to you. Answer me at once!”

They had been caught red-handed. People on the street stared at the scene. Some people sneered and whispered, or pointed indiscreetly.

Raphael shook his head and with sudden clarity he could see how the future would unfold: he would be fired, he would return home, he would face his mother, and he would have to explain for the umpteenth time how he had lost his job. She would cry, and he would comfort her.

Simon had to jump in. “Mr. and Mrs. Lightwood, we meant no offence, really. There’s nothing wr— Well, I’m not going to defend myself here, because we didn’t— I mean, I— Oh, farts.”

Raphael was struck by the ridiculousness of Simon’s exclamation, so wholly Simon-like, that he couldn’t help but snigger. His nerves finally cracked and he exploded into uncharacteristic laughter.

Mr. Lightwood turned a shade darker and seemed to take Raphael’s laughter as an insult. “You will return home at once, and pack up your things. I don’t want to see either of you around our house anymore. Is that clear?”

“Sure, _pendejo intolerante_.” Simon had forgot Raphael could become sharp when attacked.

“What did you just call me?” Mr. Lightwood swelled to twice his size, much like a gorilla defending its territory.

“ _Pendejo_ ,” Raphael repeated. “ _Eres ciego_. _Echa un vistazo a_ _tu proprio hijo, para el cielo!_ ”

“What?” Mr. Lightwood bellowed. “Don’t you talk to me that way.”

“Raphael,” Simon pleaded. He shook Raphael’s arm. “Stop. You’re making it worse.”

“ _No me importa_!” Raphael once again turned to Mr. Lightwood to continue his tirade. It was clear to Simon now, that Raphael, once properly angered, had no impulse control.

A whole sleuth of insults fell from Raphael’s mouth, and Maryse visibly lost her patience one insult at a time. She deflated and her lips trembled in anger. Oh, god, did she understand what Raphael was saying? What on earth was he saying? In the end, Simon dragged Raphael on way, Maryse Mr. Lightwood the other way.

 

Raphael continued to ramble in Spanish, the rage eventually simmering down and turning into what Simon could only guess was frustrated panic – or perhaps disappointment, it was difficult to tell. Simon went to look for Magnus.

Once Magnus rejoined them, he and Raphael continued to speak in Spanish, devolving into a shouting match, and Simon resigned himself to sitting on the curb of the street with his face propped up in his hands without a word of explanation as to what was transpiring between the two men.

He sighed dejectedly and let his mind settle. He would have to find another job. Too many employers looked down on his Jewish identity. Getting a job at Lightwood manor had been difficult enough. And perhaps he had misinterpreted their openness of character. Perhaps they weren’t so accepting, after all.

 

Long past midnight in their rooms, when Raphael was still fretting, only now in silence, and Simon felt as if he couldn’t truly reach him, Simon said, “I only wish you would be candid with me. I have no idea what you’re thinking.”

No answer came, and this was severely frustrating.

“I’ve never complained about it once, but, really. You’ve spoken more words to Magnus tonight than you’ve spoken to me in days! How is that possible? I don’t understand what’s going on.”

It was like pulling teeth, but eventually Raphael answered.

“Magnus and I have known each other for a long time—,”

“I know.”

“—for a long _time_ ,” he repeated impatiently, “and he knows about me.”

“About you?”

Raphael rolled his eyes. “About my preference for men. You have it easy. You’re a fool, choosing me, when you could choose a woman, too. Clary, or some other girl. But I don’t choose women.”

In truth, it had been foolish of Simon. He had liked women in the past, so he knew it was part of him, but it wasn’t part of Raphael’s past. A lot of effort on Simon’s part and late night conversations had made that clear. There was an imbalance between them which Simon didn’t know how to make level, so he chose to hold Raphael’s hand and encourage him to speak.

Raphael clicked his tongue and straightened his curling hair. He had foregone his evening ritual and they lay in bed restlessly. “Magnus had warned me.”

“What about?”

“He’d seen us together once. A month back. He warned me about Maryse and Robert. They don’t take too kindly to our kind. He warned me not to take it further.”

“I didn’t know.”

Raphael shrugged. “I didn’t want to know.”

“Why didn’t you tell me? I’d’ve been more careful.”

“I didn’t want to change anything. You seemed happy.”

There wasn’t a lot more they could say, and the knowledge that they would soon be heading opposite directions for an undetermined amount of time weighed heavily on the two of them. Somehow, they found a way to continue speaking without using words. But they had never been that good with words, anyways.

They had a last night together, and spent it selfishly drowned in each other, ignoring the harsh reality daylight was sure to bring along.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hahaha, 'short story?', fek it, dose don't exist anyhow.
> 
> Spanish:  
> \- Asshole. He's blind. Take a look at your own son, for heaven's sake.  
> \- I don't care.


	6. Chapter 6

[Intermezzo – Alec]

 

Alec Lightwood felt sick to his stomach.

The breakfast table was a true feast, with three different kinds of jams, fresh and crunchy brioches and thick slices of bread, a spread of meats and a platter of cheese, but it all looked distasteful to Alec, who, a few minutes earlier, had been informed of the scandal downstairs. He had no fondness for either Raphael or Simon, having both met them on several occasions, but the matter of their indiscretion hit very close to home, both literally and figuratively.

He had not looked his mother in the eye yet.

On the other side of the table, Jace admitted to knowing about the two downstairs.

“You knew?” asked a stumped Mrs. Lightwood.

Jace nodded and slouched further into his chair, waving his hand around. “I practically caught them going at it once.” His mother gave him a stern look for his language. “Fine, they were _canoodling_. I kinda barged into their room. I’d wanted to go fishin’ one morning and Raphael’s awfully good with a reel.” He shrugged good-naturedly and popped a grape in his mouth, carelessly turning away from the conversation and reaching for the morning newspaper.

Alec’s father disapproved of the situation, very vocally, and was an incarnation of everything Alec feared would be the reaction if ever he decided he was ready to confide in his parents. His father spoke with harsh words, _unnatural_ , _repugnant behaviour_ , _shameless_ , a seemingly endless attack on Alec’s already small sense of self. He looked up to see Magnus staring straight ahead of him next to the breakfast room door, a face that appeared vacant. But Alec knew better.

Maryse barely contributed to the conversation, and seemed torn between two emotions, confusion and fear. Of course, Alec understood. It would surprise him greatly if his mother _didn’t_ know about his own preferences. She was his mother, after all, she had a woman’s intuition about those kind of things, especially when they concerned her son. But anyone could see she couldn’t really grasp the concept. A man loving another man. She was confused.

When Robert spoke resolutely of firing both Simon and Raphael, a deed Alec felt passionately was unjust, he directed himself towards his mother, and prayed, prayed, prayed, that for once, she would be able to put aside her fear and confusion, and recognize her son for who he was.

“Mom. You can’t let them go.”

She looked up at him with big, glassy eyes.

“What on earth are you talking about, son?” his father demanded.

The whole table had gone quiet. Jace and Isabelle halted their breakfast and regarded their brother with surprise. Alec had spoken for the first time since morning. He couldn’t let Raphael and Simon be fired over this. He wouldn’t forgive himself.

He turned to his mother.

 

Simon’s life was full of men – all kinds, all ranks, all temperaments – or at least he felt like it was. Despite the near-constant present of his mother, his sister, and his best friend, who was also a girl, his life felt overshadowed by men. He had grown used to it, from a young age, with the absence of a father, which paradoxically demanded a large presence in his life, and how an absence could demand such a presence in his life was a mystery to him. As a small boy, he obsessed over his father, what he would have looked like if he was still alive, what he would eat, what he would think. It occupied his mind much more than was healthy. Now that he was a grown man, the absent father faded into the background and was more or less forgotten. But just as one man disappeared from view, another showed up and called for an equal amount of dedication, albeit of an entirely different nature. One obsession followed the next, and Simon wondered idly who would follow once Raphael was out of the picture.

He’d known, when he was still small, that he liked both boys and girls. When he was about ten years old, walking hand in hand with his mother in the market of his village back home, he’d spotted a figure chatting with the postman, and this person seemed to him neither woman nor man, and they wore a face that could mistaken for either. Ten-year-old Simon was mesmerized and couldn’t tear his eyes away. When he was a teenager, he thought back to that moment and recalled it with vivid clarity, and came to the astounding conclusion that he was capable of loving just anybody. He was not confused about this, but instead decided he was one of the luckiest people alive.

Last night, Raphael had accused him of having it easy. Simon had it easy because he could choose between man or woman in his affections —he had it easier, in truth, because there was no such thing as a divided choice. Simon could choose anyone. Raphael saw the world through a black and white filter, and Simon wasn’t sure he’d be able to properly put into words that shades of grey identified him.

He wondered where they would end up, the two of them.

 

This morning reminded Raphael of the earliest days of their relationship, before Simon had taken the risk of touching Raphael with something less than innocence for the first time.

Raphael got up and took his pile of folded clothing and changed quickly in the bathroom, unsure of what clothes to wear. Did he wear his uniform, or his regular clothes? He brushed his dull, curly, black hair viciously until it lay flat, gelled it into a respectable shape, brushed his teeth with an intensity that left it bleeding, and scrubbed his face clean until it was slightly pink. He could feel eyes following him around the room from where Simon was lying on the bed, as he had done many mornings in the past. Raphael had never understood what on earth could be fascinating about watching a person get ready before breakfast, but clearly it held some kind of value.

This morning, however, was perceptively different from other mornings. It was ridden with tension. The skin over Raphael’s knuckles was taut and white as he brushed his hair. His breath came in short, agitated bursts while he washed his face. On the bed, Simon was not relaxed, but he lay down with his arms crossed and a pinched look on his face.

Magnus came knocking a little before seven. He entered looking haggard and worn, and told them he had not yet had the opportunity to speak with the Lightwoods personally, to ‘get this mess sorted’. For the time being, they were to stay downstairs, out of the line of fire.

Raphael pressed his lips tightly as to not burst into a Spanish rant. The old rebellious streak tended to come out whenever he felt that he was being personally attacked. He hated the Lightwoods with a fervour, with a passion that could easily translate into reckless violence. It had happened before, when he was young, in the streets of Mexico as a teenager. Anyone daring to insult him – and it happened, quite often – would usually end up regretting it. Volatile, he’d been called. It upset his mother.

Raphael did nothing but nod at Magnus and sat down on the bed unsure of how to proceed with the morning. His daily routine was interrupted and he did not care for it.

 

Gossip spread speedily in the household and before noon most of the staff was aware of the tension radiating from upstairs.

Magnus came back trudging from the staircase in the hall next to the kitchens, where the cook had boiled some tea for Raphael and Simon while they anxiously awaited news.

“Magnus,” Simon began. “What’s going on? Are we fired? Are we being sent off? She’s not going to write home about this, is she? Has she refused to write recommendation letters for us? What am I saying, of course she hasn’t wr—,”

“Simon.”

“Sorry. I’m nervous.”

“Yes,” Magnus said. “But actually, I have some good news. For you at least. There’s also some bad news.”

Raphael raised his brows.

“All hell broke loose upstairs,” Magnus sighed. “It was a nightmare.”

“What do you mean?”

The cook leaned against the stone sink and eagerly followed the conversation. She was the biggest gossip of all. This way at least, Raphael thought, the entire staff would know about it all at once, instead of the rumours taking on excess proportions as the truth was distorted each time the words travelled.

“Well,” Magnus said, undoing his cuffs and pulling back his shirt to his elbows, “The conversations took a strange turn upstairs.”

“Huh?”

Raphael remained quiet.

“It seems there were actually a few votes opting for your stay, not your departure.”

“Stop talking fancy,” Simon complained. “What are you talking about?”

“Surprisingly, all Lightwood siblings asked for you to _stay_ , not be fired. Well, Jace didn’t particularly care, but he enjoys your fishing expertise, Raphael.”

Raphael was unimpressed. He did not like Jace, but he supposed he should be grateful.

“So you’re saying…” Simon prompted.

“I’m saying that you’re lucky. Mr. Lightwood is against it, of course, but he’s a backwards bigot, so no surprise there. But his entire family voted in your favour.”

Simon’s lips parted and he looked much like a gaping fish. “Mrs. Lightwood?”

“Yes, Maryse.”

“But yesterday …”

“You spooked her, is all.”

Raphael wondered if she had finally wizened up and accepted the truth about her son. He only knew because of the small details Magnus let slip when they spoke in private, but even without Magnus’ proof, Raphael had always suspected Alec was gay. Simon was oblivious to this matter.

“ _Ella sabe, de Alec?_ ” he asked. It wasn’t Raphael’s place to tell Simon.

Magnus nodded and Simon grumbled, “Stop speaking Spanish!”

“Sorry, baby.”

The cook widened her eyes at the term of endearment.

“So, what, we’re keeping our jobs? What’s gonna happen?” Simon asked.

“That’s the bad news. I don’t really know what’s waiting for us at the moment. Maryse and Robert are still fighting upstairs. They’ve never exactly had the best relationship, always fighting and disagreeing, but it seems a bit worse this time round. It’s a shouting match. You’re safe for now –more or less. We should probably all consider our precarious positions, and wonder if we’ll still be employed next week. Their marriage is on the rocks.”

“Wow!” Simon exclaimed. He slumped and took a large gulp of his tea. The cook leaned forward and gave his shoulder a squeeze. She seemed perturbed.

“I can’t believe they stood on our side, though!” Simon continued. Trust Simon to see the good in this situation of uncertainty. He turned to Raphael with an enormous smile and swooped in for a big, tight embrace. Raphael was slightly numb with relief and couldn’t reciprocate. He gave an aborted half-smile and pulled away. Simon kissed him on the cheek, a wet _smooch_. Magnus’ news was surreal. It couldn’t be this easy, surely? Raphael didn’t believe in easy endings.

Raphael needed peace and quiet, and if he didn’t seek out some solitude, he would grow queasy.

Simon and Magnus continued speaking in excited tones, speculating about the following days, about their employers and whether or not a break was in sight, but Raphael couldn’t handle the agitation. Volatile, he’d been called before. But now all the anger that had plagued him in the morning and the evening before dissipated rapidly, and he was slightly at a loss as to how he should behave.

He needed air.

Squeezing Simon’s hand once distractedly, he turned around without a word and exited the kitchen, heading off to the gardens.

He lit up a cigarette and stared at the fountain where he’d washed his shirt that day and had kissed Simon for the first time. He walked onwards to the water and tightened his jacket around him. Summer was fading. It was a gusty afternoon, the wind playing with the leaves, and the tall grass and meadowsweet dancing in the breeze near the border of the lake.

Raphael finished his cigarette, crushed the butt under the boot of his shoe, and inhaled deeply. Rain had come down during the night and the garden smelled of damp grass and wet plants.

He turned around and startled. Alec stood on the balcony of the first floor with his hands on the railing. He caught Raphael’s eye and nodded once.

Raphael did not smile, but merely nodded in return. He didn’t like Alec, but owed him a debt. The balcony doors stood open and Alec slipped back inside. An accord had passed between the two of them. Raphael turned his back to the house and lit another cigarette, exhaling slowly.

It started to drizzle, and Raphael watched the ripples forming on the water.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spanish: She knows, about Alec?
> 
> So, did you like it? Are you gonna slap me for giving a bittersweet ending?
> 
> And say, what do you guys think about Saphael atm, in relation to the show? It's completely disappeared on screen, let's be real. And the fandom's kinda dyin, ain't it? I feel like I'm on a small island while everybody's partying on the main land.

**Author's Note:**

> I almost didn't post this, because it was a dream I'd had last night, featuring a lovely but stern girl I was foolheartedly in love with.
> 
> Mh.


End file.
